Soon after we had found our stalls the conductor’s bâton waved, the overture was played, and the curtain rose.
The first act had concluded when I stood up to nod to several people present whom I knew, and in casting my eyes around the boxes I was attracted to one in which sat a young and handsomely dressed lady, alone. As I looked, our eyes met.
It was Vera!
Apparently she had been watching me, for with a pleasant smile of recognition, she beckoned me with her fan.
At that moment Bob noticed her, and nodding towards her, whispered, “By Jove! old fellow, who’d have thought of meeting the fair Russian? The world isn’t so large, after all. Shall you go up and speak?”
I glanced upwards in hesitation. She was leaning from the box, the diamonds in her hair flashing under the gaslight, and she beckoned anxiously. This decided me, and I went in search of her, with a feeling – half of the old love, and half of a newly-born distrust.
I was not long in finding her box, and as I entered, her maid, who was her only companion, went out.
Retiring into the shadow, so as not to be observed by the people below, she stretched forth her hand and, with a glad smile, exclaimed, “At last, Frank —quel plaisir!”
I drew back, and was ungallant enough not to take the proffered hand, for had I not been duped by her and nearly lost my liberty and life?
“Ah!” she said in a hoarse whisper, “it is as I expected, Frank – we are no longer friends.”
“Why should we be?”
“I know I am unworthy a thought, having acted as basely as I did; but it was not my fault. It could not be avoided,” she said, casting her eyes to the floor.
“And that is the way you reciprocate my affection! You send me upon an errand so dangerous that it nearly costs me my life!” I remarked, bitterly.
“No, no! Do not judge me harshly,” she pleaded, laying her hand upon my coat-sleeve, and looking into my face imploringly. “Wait until I can explain before you condemn me. I know you think me a scheming, cold-hearted adventuress; perhaps I was when I met you; but now – it is different.”
“Vera,” I said, endeavouring to be firm, “it pains me, but I must put an end to this interview. I was foolish to seek you thus, but it was only to confront you for the last time that I obeyed. I have loved you fondly, madly, but you have – there – I could never trust you again; so, for the future, we must be as strangers.”
“You are cruel, Frank,” she said, the tears welling in her eyes. “It is merciless of you not to hear my version of the matter, although I own appearances are much against me. The vilest criminal is allowed to make a defence; surely you will not debar me from it!”
She looked beseechingly at me, her face blanched and betraying the struggle going on within.
“But you cannot tell me here,” I said, somewhat softened by her repentance.
“No; my uncle will be out to-morrow evening, come to me then,” she replied, producing a visiting card, upon which she scribbled an address. “We are living at Richmond. If you cannot come, may I meet you?”
Taking the card, I said, “Very well, you shall explain matters if you wish. I will call to-morrow.”
“Do,” she implored; “I am sure I shall be able to satisfy you that I am not so very much to blame.”
We then shook hands and parted, for the orchestra having finished playing, the curtain had risen, and the theatre was too quiet to allow further conversation.
I returned to my seat, but on glancing up five minutes afterwards, saw that Vera was not in her box, and concluded that the burlesque had no longer any attraction for her.
Nugent’s inquiries after her health and well-being I answered satisfactorily, though I, myself, could not sit out the play, and returned home long before it was over.
I need not dwell upon the fearful suspense and mental torture in which that night was spent. Suffice it to say it was a period that seemed interminable, for my heart was racked by an intensity of emotion which can scarcely be conceived. The sight of Vera, in all her bewitching loveliness of old when we passed those happy days at Genoa, had awakened, with a thousand-fold energy, my love. Deceived as I imagined myself to have been, the one absorbing passion of my existence had still lived, in spite of all attempts to smother and subdue it by reason’s aid. One word from Vera, one look from those eyes into my own, had again laid me a captive at her feet, although I despised – hated – myself for what seemed mere weakness.
I knew it was a farce to seek an explanation, for, whatever it might be, I was ready to accept it. My heart could not be hardened against Vera. And then, should she in verity explain the mystery which hung around us both, that would mean the dawn of better days and brighter hopes.
Chapter Seventeen
The Terrace, Richmond
With a beating heart and a firm determination to be strong, I was ushered on the following afternoon into the drawing-room of one of that terrace of large houses that stand on the summit of Richmond Hill, overlooking what was at that time the grounds of Buccleuch House, but which have lately been thrown open as public gardens.
It was a pleasant room, the windows of which commanded a fine view of the picturesque valley, where, deep down, the river, like a silvery streak, winds in and out the mass of foliage. Undoubtedly it is the prettiest scene within many miles of London, and that day Father Thames was looking his best in the glories of a setting sun, whose rays now gilded the sail of a tiny craft dropping down with the tide, and anon lighted up some snorting tug or shrieking pleasure-launch.
Scarcely had I time to glance round when the door opened and Vera entered.
She looked even more lovely than I had ever before seen her, dressed in a tea-gown of cream lace over vieux rose satin, with a loose front and train, showing the pale rose satin lining, her waist being encircled by a curious girdle. It suited her admirably, and as she walked across the room with a smile of glad welcome upon her lips and her hand outstretched, I confess my heart was softened towards her.
There was an indefinable air – it might be of anxiety about her, however, as if she were afraid that what she had to say would not be convincing to me; and it was plainly to be seen that she, too, had spent a night of sleeplessness.
“Well, Frank, we have met again – you did not forget your promise,” she said, in those soft tones I loved to hear, speaking slowly, perhaps timidly.
We seated ourselves in silence. I dared not yet trust myself to speak.
“Last night I said I would give you the reason of my apparent fourberie.”
She paused, and toyed with her rings. She was waiting for me to answer.
“Yes,” I said; “I am listening.”
She looked up hastily; my voice was not encouraging.
“It was imperative Frank, that you should be sent to Petersburg – and – it was for your own sake – ”
“For my sake!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, Frank,” she replied; “and it was only for that and for your future happiness and our – ” she paused, while a vivid blush mantled her handsome features.
“Our what?” I demanded, almost rudely.
“I must not say, dearest; but this you might know – that no harm was intended for you in any proceeding in which I had a hand.”
“That is no answer, Vera,” I said, somewhat sternly. “You say this was for ‘our’ something, and for my future happiness! What does it all mean, and why this mystery? I’m tired of it. If you cannot explain, why ask me to call upon you?”
“Because, Frank – because I feel sure you would forgive me everything, could you know all.”
“Is there a reason, then, that you will make no explanation?”
“Yes, a most important one. If I could, I would tell you – but I cannot,” she said.
“Yet you were aware of my arrest, my imprisonment without trial, and transportation?”